


A Legacy of Love

by eldritcher



Series: The Song of Sunset, The Second Age [11]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 05:38:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4007887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You can't go wrong. You were born of love. That is your legacy."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Legacy of Love

He walked into the deserted chambers, his face gaunt and drawn. For a moment, he paused in the centre of the room, his emerald eyes taking in the familiar desk that faced the window. How often had he surprised his father there, while Oropher had been absorbed in some diplomatic missive? 

He could almost imagine that the familiar scent of his father’s herbal-tea lingered in the air. Sighing, he made his way to the desk and stared dully at the abandoned missives. 

Oropher, Prince of Doriath, was dead. And his young son had been left to lead a tottering kingdom. Thranduil fingered the elegantly wrought crown on his head absently. It should never have been there. 

“Curse you, Isildur,” Thranduil said bitterly as he slumped into the chair at the desk, his fingers clenching into fists.

He stared at the familiar hand of his father on a scroll tightly sealed. For a moment, his curiosity overcame his bitter grief and pulled the scroll open. His eyes widened in shock as he read on.

 

“Dear Celeborn,

I am at the docks of Mithlond as I write this. It has been a wonderfully hectic time so far. The hosts of the Valar have pushed back the enemy towards Angband. My position is more ceremonial than instrumental, The Seneschal and Herald of the Sindar of Doriath. I wish you had been here with me for these are long, boring days with nothing but council meetings. The hosts from the West require no aid from us dispersed Sindar or the strife-torn Noldor. But all the same, it has been a novel experience to see our Vanyarin kin from across the sea.

I have made an intriguing acquaintance. The daughter of Ingwion, son of Ingwë, High-King of Valinor. Her name is Vanima. Oh, cousin, I am sure that not even the stars of Elbereth can hold their own against her radiant beauty. Her kin are beautiful in their own way, I agree, but in her is warmth that truly radiates. I have seen Melian, I have seen Lúthien…but this woman, nay, Princess, far surpasses them. I have always thought that your lady, Galadriel, is the finest specimen of Vanyarin beauty, but now it stands refuted. 

When I first saw her, at dawn, the sun rising behind the deck of the ship where she stood, I was struck. It will be the most unforgettable scene I have seen, the red rays framing her golden features, turning mere flesh and blood to a miracle that should be beatified.   
This golden woman is far more beautiful and worth dying for than any Silmaril wrought by Fëanor. Cousin, you know how wild and reckless I am. But even I can find nothing wanting in this woman. She is the woman.

Is this love? I am not sure, for I have never known this before. As she has no companions abroad her ship, she comes to Círdan’s place often. And I stay with Círdan as he holds true to our bonds of kinship. So we are often thrown together. I daresay she is older than me…and wiser. 

Whenever I see her, my wit and words fail me. I am worse than a naïve, stuttering man who has seen his first elf. Oh, cousin, I desperately need your counsel, for I am torn between wanting to see her more, spend all the time I have with her, and then wanting to avoid her, the power she has over me frightens me.

I find myself trying to make her smile…and when she smiles, it is as if the sun and the moon and the stars are all glowing down upon me. When she takes my arm, I feel shivers down my spine. When she speaks at dinners, I feel it is only to me. Am I going mad?

Cousin-mine, please come to Mithlond. I need your advice and more desperately, your comforting presence. I am lost. At nights, I can dream only of her, her radiant features lit by a soft smile, her warm body caressed by the Vanyarin silk, her golden curls streaming after her.

Your cousin.”

 

Thranduil leant back in the chair, his eyes distant as he gazed upon the dawn. The sun was rising above the treeline, bathing the skies in a golden red. Resolutely, he began rifling through the scrolls on his dead father’s desk. 

 

“Dear Círdan,

I shall not give up my love for her. Her brothers and father have warned me to stay away from her. They have threatened me with dire consequences should I presume to act upon her declaration of love.

How could they even think that I might tear myself away from her voluntarily? I love her, as deeply, as purely, as wholly, as you love the sea. It is not lust, it is not infatuation, it is not affection. What consumes me is fire, the fire of love. I cannot live without her by my side. I would sail with her, if she asks me to. But I can never give her up.

Would you let me sail? Celeborn will be a better administrator than me anyway. Now that the war is intensifying, I wish to go forth to the battlefields as a leader of our people. It is my duty. But after our victory, for we shall win with the might of the Valar by our side, I wish to marry her.

We have already promised ourselves to each other for eternity. We are bound in heart, body and soul. As we are both of age, not even her kin can break our bonds, for it was hallowed by Eru. I do not regret it, for we fear being torn apart. Now that we are bound, her father will definitely listen to reason and bless our union.

It was magical, my dear friend. It was bliss. I will never forget the sun rising over the sea as we merged into one on the sands, with the waves crashing upon the shore. If I die afield, I shall die knowing that I die for her. It seems the worthiest cause any soul could have.  
I live for her, and I shall live with her, whatever be the consequences.

Oropher of Doriath.”

 

Thranduil felt bitterness rise in his throat as he thought of the consequences that Oropher had faced. 

“My Lord,” Thalion’s voice was concerned, “are you well?”

“Indeed.” Thranduil rose to his feet limply. “Ready the audience chamber of the king, Thalion. I shall hold court today.”

Thalion seemed to be on the verge of protest, but with a last, sadly wistful glance the healer walked out of the room. Thranduil turned back to the desk and gathered up the scrolls. He would read them all, whatever pain they caused him. His father had never told him about his past. But now, he was determined to know.

* * *

He groaned in pure exhaustion as the last council of the day ended. Enviously, he thought of his dear friend Elrond, who had a highly capable co-ruler in Erestor. The same held true for his kinsman, Amroth, who had Galadriel’s experience to bolster his rule. But Thranduil Oropherion was alone. 

“Ada,” he muttered as he stretched to relieve his cramped muscles, “I do wonder whatever possessed you with a need to build a kingdom in a forest. The seashore would have been infinitely better.”

The seashore, he sighed, his father had lain with his mother only once. On the seashore. He took a deep drink of the leftover wine on the council table and then hurried off to his father’s chambers. After throwing cursory glances about, he barricaded himself within and went over to sit at Oropher’s desk.

 

“Dear Celeborn,

I have seen Lord Ingwion. He refused to let me meet the lady, his daughter. However, I was able to gain permission to see the elfling. 

She has named him Thranduil. Celeborn, you know how unaffected I am by elflings and their antics. But this babe is different. I was shocked when I saw those bright, inquisitive, emerald eyes regarded me for the first time, unafraid and fiery. It snapped some long held barricade within my soul. I reached out to touch those golden curls so reverently that I am sure none of my friends would have recognized me. The child resembles Oropher, I daresay. Yet in him is a curious mix of bloodlines. I have seen Ingwë, High-King before the great waters of the Awakening. Thranduil has something of Ingwë’s spirit.

Seeing the child smile at me toothlessly was probably the crowning moment of my happiness. I was so relieved that he was not scared of my beard, indeed, he seemed to find it extremely amusing! And I was warmed by his fearlessness. Suffice it to say that I am sure Ingwë will forgive them when he sees the babe.

But there is one thing I am worried about. The child cannot sleep in peace. Nightmares. Why would so young a soul have nightmares? Pray, do not tell Oropher this, for I am worried for him as it is. For now, I must rush to my ships. Lady Carnilótë has been absolved of her marriage vows by the Valar. So she is returning west. While her daughter, is of an age to understand the matters, she has a newborn babe too. She leaves without even giving him a name, for that keen she is to be rid of her former spouse, Maglor Fëanorion. I am not sure if he knows of his son’s existence. But I am holding true to the promise I have made to his brother and I shall foster the child as mine.

Círdan.”

 

Thranduil smiled wistfully at Círdan’s description of the babe. Maybe that explained why the mariner had always held a soft spot for him. And he cursed Erestor’s mother once again. How could she leave as she had? Círdan had been an excellent foster-father, but Thranduil suspected that desertion by both the parents had a great part in Menelwen’s unhappiness. Of Erestor, he had no inkling of what the chief-counsellor thought of the matter. But his friend had always held hidden depths. 

He proceeded onwards to the next letter, which bore a seal that he well knew.

 

“To The Prince Oropher of Doriath

I have the gravest reservations about your marriage proposal to my granddaughter. I have lost both my grandsons in this war and I shall not abide losing my granddaughter. That you have bonded to her in secret, without informing her kith or kin is an injustice indeed. But that she carried within her life you had created! I cannot possibly forgive you for this, I will never understand how presumptuous you are, to dare to love the fairest flower of Valinor; to keep her away from what is home? I shall not allow this. She comes with her father to my realm. Bury your love and bonds as you care, if you stay in Middle Earth. If you cross the sea, with your offspring, I cannot promise you acceptance, or the custody of your child. No heir of mine shall be brought up by Moriquendi, if I have yet a say.

Ingwë.”

 

Thranduil pressed his fingers to his closed eyes and massaged them wearily. Ingwë’s displeasure, he could well understand. Thranduil was fairly sure that if he had a child, who had bonded to another in secret, he would react the same way. But if Ingwë had threatened less, perhaps…

 

“I write this under grave circumstances. I leave at sunrise tomorrow. Oropher, I can never beg your forgiveness. But I have no choice. They threaten to separate you from our son forever. I cannot let them do that. Our child is as much a part of you as of me. Even if you sail now, when you do not have the seacall, they might not let us live together. I could not bear it. Seeing you, not touching you. Meeting your gaze, but never smiling. And our child, our child shall not grow up as an orphan, cloistered within my family, knowing neither father nor mother.

For the best of us all, I beg of you. Take our son, raise him as befits a scion of Elu Thingol and Melian, and of Ingwë. Let him be the reason why my kin shall seek our forgiveness for this turmoil they cause us. Let him be a beacon amongst our races. Let him be the best of you and I.

At each sunrise, I shall wait upon the harbours of Alqualonde, keeping watch for a ship that shall bear me my love and my son. Come to me when your work here is done. For me there shall ever be only you.

It was but one night, but to my aching soul, the memories shall last an eternity and more.  
Ever yours,  
Vanima.” 

 

Thranduil pressed the rich parchment to his nostrils as if seeking to capture some long-buried scent. The paper had known his mother’s tears, the paper had known his mother’s touch. A hastily stifled harsh, choking sound escaped him. 

The sun rose slowly above the trees, bathing the miserably huddled figure seated at the desk in golden warmth. Yet even the heat of the sun could not warm his soul.

“I shall never watch a sunrise again”, he cursed as he rose to his feet and stormed out.

* * *

Thranduil smiled bitterly as he saw the crippled elf trudge through the courtyard towards the granaries. Half his warriors were in this condition, broken, maimed and devastated by their experiences in Mordor. The other half were hardly enough to guard the borders. And many of the families who had lost a member to Mordor were sailing. He did not blame them. If he had been anyone else but a King, he would have sailed.

“My King,” Thalion was hesitant, as he had always been after the war. Thranduil wondered idly if Thalion sensed that his former student had been changed by his experiences.

“Call me not thus,” he said more harshly than he intended to. “The title rested easily only on him,” he flicked his head towards Oropher’s portrait.

“I am sure that you will make every inch as good a ruler as he had been, if not a better one,” Thalion murmured sincerely, his eyes holding deep sorrow.

“I am sorry,” Thranduil sighed. “I should not have spoken so callously. I know that you feel the same turmoil as I do. Long have you been companions and swordbrothers.”

“I do not hold you responsible for grief,” Thalion smiled wanly. “Now, come away to supper.”

“I will, after I finish reading a few letters of my personal correspondence,” Thranduil nodded warmly and leant back in his chair.

After Thalion had left, the king unscrolled a fading parchment.

 

“Dearest Altáriel,

I fear for my cousin. He grows weaker and frailer with each passing day, doing little else than staring at the sea from his chambers in Círdan’s palace. Each dawn is a period of silent mourning and unshed tears. I no longer can pull him away from his dark musings. Though Círdan and I have tried our most, we cannot make force the poor soul to eat or sleep. Ah, to see my proud cousin brought so low. Only love could wreak this on our hearts, Altáriel, only love.

Círdan has his hands full at the moment. Young Thranduil has a pleasant disposition and is an easy charge. His nurses have no trouble with him. But at nights, it is hard. He cannot sleep untroubled. His father has taken to carrying him along the seashores all night, crooning softly so that he might fall asleep. And your cousin Maglor’s daughter is recovered enough. There has been a new arrival to these shores, Lord Glorfindel of erstwhile Gondolin. He has taken on the young girl in his charge. But the newborn elfling, whom Círdan named Erestor, I do pity the child. I cannot think who would accept the charge. Círdan might, of course, but he is not the epitome of a good parent. I am going to speak with Gil-Galad regarding the elfling. 

At moments like these, I thank Eru for blessing our love. We have fought together for our love and our rewards have been rich. I love you, Altáriel. When I see my cousin like this, I can only think that I was lucky enough to have my love requited and realized. To have you by my side, to wake beside you, to see you smile, to debate endlessly with you…You are my love, my light and my life.

Your Silver Tree.”

 

Thranduil’s eyes darkened as he thought of all that had passed since this fervent declaration. Galadriel had nearly died from Celeborn’s cruelty and callous infidelity. Celeborn too had lost a sense of purpose when the distance between them had become nigh unbridgeable. Their daughter’s sacrificial marriage to Elrond had left their love in shreds. Thranduil feared that Celeborn might never forgive Galadriel for her interference and that Galadriel might never be able to make reparation for her actions.

 

Sighing, he picked up the next letter.

 

“Dear Thalion,

I am coming to Lindon soon. Pray, have my lands secured and the people ready to make a journey to our new home, the verdant, rich forests of Greenwood. Cousin Celeborn has the highest opinion of the place and says that it will suit the Sylvan followers the most. 

Despite what Celeborn and Círdan might say, I am recovered enough. My son needs a better place than a temporary guest room to grow up, it is high time I took him home. For her, I shall raise him into a true scion of Ingwë and Thingol. He is all that I have left of her, other than fleeting memories. And that shall be enough to sustain me in this life and more. 

Oropher.”

 

Thranduil reread the last two lines. His father had lived for him. He had been Oropher’s tenuous link to life. But it had not been enough to resist Mandos in Mordor, Thranduil reflected bitterly. The last letter of the pile was sealed carefully with Oropher’s royal insignia. Thranduil frowned, it had yet not been broken. Curious, he took the letter and broke the seal.

 

“Dearest son,

As I write this, I am watching you dance with your bride-to-be under the eaves of Greenwood. I am overjoyed that you have finally found your true-love, your bonded-mate. I wanted you to bind while the lands are not yet torn apart by war and destruction. One war brought to me a shooting star that lit up my life and then left it inexorably cold. But I have never regretted loving that shooting star. 

As you embark on a lifetime of love with Anoriel, this is what I want from you; love selflessly. Love your lands, your subjects, your friends and your bonded-mate with a passion that shall never be tainted. Then, my dearest son, you shall never regret any of your choices. For good or for ill, your lot has been thrown in with those of The House of Finwe. You have chosen Galadriel for a foster-parent, you have sworn brotherhood to Erestor and Elrond. Your fate is inextricably linked with theirs. Perhaps people might condemn you for being loyal to them. But my son, you have made me proud. As I have always known you would. You have made just and true choices, now I want you to stand by them till the end.

This war might leave us in grief and sorrow. I want no words unsaid should anything happen.

A heart that is pure shall know to love. A heart that knows to love shall never know darkness and fear. 

Remember, son, that I have never regretted living for you,  
You are the most precious jewel of my hoard, my sole hold to sanity, my will to live and my strength,

For you, I live. That is what I promised her, and I have never broken that promise.  
And If I can die to keep you alive, then I would consider myself blessed the most amongst Eru’s creations. Do not grieve for me, son, for I would not have you know despair as I have known it.

Believe that she and I have always loved you, and shall always watch over you. I do not leave behind anything to remember me by.

Indeed, all that you shall have from us, as your inheritance, will be a legacy of love. 

Your father.”

 

Thranduil covered his gaunt face with his long-fingered hands, and leant forwards in a silent, yet eloquent expression that conveyed his turmoil.

“Thranduil?” Anoriel’s voice was concerned as she entered the usually locked study in a most hesitant manner.

He had shut himself away from her in his grief. He glanced once again at his father’s letter and then rose to his feet. Striding forth to meet her by the fireplace, he tucked the letter into his robes. She glanced at him with curiosity and worry warring for dominance on her grief-marred, yet, beautiful face. He cursed himself. She too had lost a father to Mordor. His was not the only unhealed wound. How could he have not been there for her when she needed support and solace?

“My dear prince,” she breathed quietly.

He cupped her cheeks and then leant forwards to capture her lips in a soft, chaste kiss. Her arms entwined themselves about his waist as she rested her weight against his frame.

“I love you,” she whispered heatedly.

All that he had left, truly, was a legacy of love.

 

References:  
The Song of Sunset, The 2nd Age.  
The Song of Sunset, The 3rd Age.

* * *


End file.
